feel threatened. They would offer no challenge so long as they were not pressed.
An entire band of mortals!
Eager to take it all in, she propped her chin on the hand she fisted about her staff and watched as the carriage approached. Filigreed iron lanterns dangling at the four corners of the boxy vehicle glittered across the highly polished wood body. Simple narrow red flags hung limp in the lacking breeze; the fabric ends were frayed and dirtied from the road. The carriage rumbled slowly, the uneven path likely joggling the passengers inside to a jaw-jarring clatter.
Light from inside the carriage box set the heavy window hangings to an eerie glow. As a hand pulled back a curtain, Gossamyr’s heartbeats quickened. A female peered out—her eyes were rimmed in thick kohl and bejeweled at the corners with glittering red stones.
“The Red—” Gossamyr choked on her declaration as she rushed the carriage.
“No!” Ulrich shouted.
A call from one of the leaders brought the equipage to a halt. Hoofbeats pounded up from the rear, drawing a half-dozen mounted men to defense.
Gossamyr gasped in the dust of the sudden upheaval as she slapped a hand to the carriage window and clung. The woman inside, not at all frightened by Gossamyr’s hasty approach, stared curiously down at her. Long red hair slipped around her neck and dangled upon exposed upper curves of her pale breasts.
“It is she!” Gossamyr cried. “The succubus!” She stretched to touch, to grope, but her reach was shortened. Someone grabbed her about the waist and jerked her away, legs flailing and staff swiping the air.
“Settle.” Ulrich held her. Gossamyr struggled, but the sudden dismount of the rear guards, and the barricade they formed before the carriage—crossbows to the ready—halted her in Ulrich’s arms. “What do you think to do?” Ulrich hissed in her ear. “We are outnumbered with long pointy, sharp weapons. The woman is but a bit of damask and lace.”
The woman in the carriage now leaned out the window. Gossamyr saw there was not a mark of the banished on her face. A very obvious mark that no one should miss. And her hair was but a rusty shade of red, not brilliant as a ruby or the blood of a slaughtered hare.
“I thought she was the Red Lady,” Gossamyr said under her breath. A foolish act on her part to approach so boldly. “She is not.”
The mounted rider who had held her stare appeared at their side. The sixteen-hand destrier unnerved Fancy with a snort of warning, and the mule backed away.
The tip of a sword drew up under Gossamyr’s chin. “Mean you my lady harm?”
“I plead mercy,” Ulrich said with a stunning swipe of his hand to deflect the blade from Gossamyr’s neck. He approached the barricade and addressed the woman in the carriage over the warning crossbows. “Forgive me, my lady, for the rudeness of my, er—” he turned to Gossamyr and shot a glance up and down her body “—my sister.”
Gossamyr gaped, stepped up to defend—but was stopped by the leader’s sword. Leery of mortal steel, she kept still. Two dark eyes peered out from the narrow slit on the helmet, holding her more fiercely than a blade to her shoulder.
“You see, my lady,” Ulrich continued. He managed, after a bow, to gain access between two of the men barricading the carriage, insinuating himself right next to the lady’s window.
The woman propped a hand on the window ledge and, fascinated by Ulrich’s gesticulating confession, gave him her full attention.
“She is daft,” Ulrich explained with a wide stretch of his arms to encompass the enormity of his statement. “Luna-touched. She meant you no harm. Just a little difficult to keep…calm when the light of the moon threatens her very soul.”
“I see,” the lady replied in throaty tones that slipped into Gossamyr’s ear so smoothly, she settled, and stepped back from the threatening sword. But not too far. A half circle of weapons were to her back. Kohl-lined eyes peered carefully at her. “She is dressed oddly.”
Now Gossamyr gripped her pourpoint, trying to clasp the broken agraffe. It was too dark to make out details, so long as she stood out of the lantern’s glow.
“My family indulges her whims,” Ulrich explained. “Fancies herself a forest warrior, at times. Others, we must chase her cross the meadow to place a stitch of clothes to her naked back.”
Blight that!
“How troubling,” the lady said. Her eyes sought Gossamyr’s secrets. So dark, and moving up and down, and along every portion of her being. “Yet you allow her a weapon? Might she not injure herself?”
“Oh, she does! The occasional hit to her head knocks her out for but a time. Blessed relief, I tell you, from tending her idiotic antics.”
“I am standing right here!” Enough. Gossamyr would not allow them to make jest of her with such falsities. She knew what Ulrich attempted; but his suggestion she was a lackwit only drew more attention to her than masking it. She nodded toward what looked now to be a cage all covered over with a tapestry tied at each of the four corners. “What is in the attached carriage?”
“Allow her to approach me. Guards,” the woman commanded lazily. “Step back. I see no harm so long as her brother stands beside her. I want to look upon madness.”
Bloody elves. So now she was mad?
Yet, the woman announced her desire with such passion it shot a prinkle up Gossamyr’s neck. And not a favorable prinkle.
Eyeing the covered cage, Gossamyr stepped cautiously past the men who smelt of horseflesh and sweat, and who clinked with every cumbersome step. Stealth avoided them, but, it mattered little; they could take her down with fight. She was no match to four men on their feet and wielding weapons. But if need be, she would give them a challenge. Oh, indeed.
Ulrich slid close as Gossamyr approached the carriage. His cheek brushed hers as he whispered, “Caution, Gossamyr. We want to walk away. I do not favor a sword to my gullet.”
He did not leave her side, remaining just behind her shoulder. A presence that somehow stilled Gossamyr’s apprehensions, almost as if grounding that part of her that wished to fly. With a glance to the well-armored men who stood but a leap to either side of her, Gossamyr then stepped up to the carriage. She did not get so close this time. Her enthusiasm must be restrained. This woman was not the Red Lady.
A movement from inside the cage alerted Gossamyr. Her sudden jerk to look to the side was met with a shing of steel as two swords were released from their sheaths and placed to threaten.
“Relax,” the woman said to her men. “She is but a troubled girl.”
Wincing at the bright light that beamed across her face, Gossamyr ducked her head to better view the woman. A small ruby had been pressed to the corner of each eye, distracting with each glint of lamplight. Her lips were glossed with an unnatural substance that also shimmered in the light. When she opened her mouth in a wondering observation, it revealed a row of small, thin teeth, almost as a fox’s foreteeth. Sharp and made for exact cutting.
“Your costume is most creative,” the lady commented. The sound of her voice reminded Gossamyr of the ungraspable past. A piece of mortal, whole and deep, very similar to Veridienne’s voice.
Forgetting
